


The First Moment

by ClaroQueQuiza



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Brotherly Bonding, Brothers, Gen, Genji is confused, Zenyatta knows exactly what's going on, as usual, hanzo is mean, talking it out
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-05
Updated: 2016-10-05
Packaged: 2018-08-19 18:43:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8221057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClaroQueQuiza/pseuds/ClaroQueQuiza
Summary: Every conversation is an argument. Genji is ready to let Hanzo go. Zenyatta knows exactly what Hanzo is trying to do.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is a little break from "Always With Me." I love Hanzo. I love Genji. I wanted to write them together a lot more than I am currently. Thank you for reading!

Genji is the first to withdraw from the argument.

 

It is unusual. Whenever he and Hanzo fight, he seems to pursue it tenaciously, almost sinking his teeth into his brother and refusing to let go, answering every jibe and diatribe with a witty retort and an answering salvo of his own, wearing his brother down until Hanzo almost has to physically shake him off and stalk away, red-faced with fury, disappearing into some nook or cranny for hours. And Genji would seem to brush it off, posture relaxed, tone light as he breaks the tension for anyone unfortunate enough to have witnessed the latest confrontation.

 

This time, though, they exchange only a few short sentences at moderate volume before Genji suddenly spins on his heel and marches away, his metal feet clanking loudly against the floor, itself a startling sound for someone who usually moved as silently as mist. His brother can’t hide the surprise that snaps across his face. A low murmur erupts from their audience, the lunch crowd in the mess hall shifting uneasily.

 

Genji walks the route completely unconsciously, his feet leading him along the familiar route down the hall, up the stairs, across the catwalk and up the utility accessway to the maintenance platform of the comm tower, one of the highest areas in the Watchpoint. The mostly-bare, sunbleached sheer rock of the cliffside answers his view at first. He turns abruptly to face the sea, seeing little in that direction besides the broad expanse of ocean and the faint mountains on the other side of the strait, grey through the haze. No ships in the channel, no seagulls crying as they surfed the air currents, no dots of color walking along the thin lines of beach within view. Nothing but the wind whipping around his helmet, buffeting him and whistling slightly.

 

He kneels, placing one hand on his thigh and folding the other into a mudra. He is still for a long time, a splash of white and green among the dark, rusty girders, black scarf snapping in the breeze.

 

There is little sign of the other’s approach. The wind stirs the red cloth hanging from his waist, but it makes no sound as it whips back and forth. The coarse yellow cloth flutters around the thin metallic legs, but it, too, is silent. There are no footsteps, of course. He is simply, suddenly there at Genji’s side, blue lights gleaming softly on his forehead, face as serene as the day it was manufactured.

 

He, too, is still for a great while. The sun drops slowly from its zenith. Their shadows lengthen. The wind reluctantly drops away.

 

“He does not want reconciliation.” There is still no movement. Genji’s voice is quiet, strained through the audio overlay. “He’s been here for four weeks, and still we have not had a single conversation without it ending with shouting.”

 

Zenyatta unclasps his hands, straightening his clothing and brushing the red cloth off his knee where the wind had left it, but does nothing more.

 

“I don’t understand. He tolerates the others. He works with Winston, strengthening our defenses, asks Mei about her research, comforts Hana when she’s homesick. But for me he has only harsh words and vitriol. Why would he come if he only wished to argue? He had no interest in Overwatch before I found him. I thought, when he came, that he wished to heal. To heal our relationship and himself. Why else would he come?”

 

“What does he say, when he speaks to you?” asks Zenyatta at last.

 

“He speaks only to criticize. He says my jokes are juvenile. He asks how many I have bedded in the night when he sees me in the morning. He points out when I leave myself open during trainings, saying I’ve become lax, a liability to myself and others. He mocks--” Genji’s breath hitches. After a moment he continues with a thick voice, forcing the words out. “He mocks my forgiveness. He mocks it. He says it is shortsighted, naive, a fool giving his housekey to a thief. Master,” he chokes out, finally turning to the omnic and grasping Zenyatta’s knee with a trembling hand. “He mocks your teachings. He mocks _you_. He calls--you--” Unseen tears drown out the rest of the words as Genji presses his forehead over his hand, sobs visibly wracking his body, leaning his weight against the suspended yet immovable monk.

 

Zenyatta places a single gun-metal grey hand on Genji’s head, patting it with soft clinks to solidify its presence beyond simply its weight. Genji claws at the releases on his helmet clumsily and one-handed, allowing the visor to clatter harshly to the ground as he scrubs at the tears, not bothering to avoid bruising his scarred and delicate flesh.

 

Zenyatta waits until his free hand drops to the ground, until his breaths regain some semblance of normal rhythm. He does not allow Genji to move away, gently pressing against the back of his head to keep it pressed to his knee. He stills his hand.

 

“Perhaps I should let him go,” Genji whispers.

 

“He does not wish to leave,” answers Zenyatta. “If you suggest it, he will refuse. And he will continue as he has, causing you pain at every opportunity.”

 

Genji’s hand curls into a fist as it rests upon the ground. “You believe he means to? He _wants_ to hurt me?”

 

Zenyatta hums in affirmation. “He attacks you on every weak side.” He raises his other hand, fingers extended, and lowers each as he ticks off the list. “Your humor, a bridge to connect to all around you. He refers to your old ways, a reminder of the past, the path you both walked to destruction. He points out your weaknesses on the battlefield, implying you will fail to protect yourself and those you love. He disparages the gift of forgiveness that you toiled for many long years to obtain, and years longer to offer it to him. And he slanders me, whom you believe saved your life--”

 

“A beloved mentor, who _did_ save my life,” interrupts Genji.

 

“--it is well-planned and meticulous, what he does to you, my student. It is designed to hurt you, to anger you.” Zenyatta feels Genji slump, leaning on him all the more. He withdraws his hand from atop Genji’s head, folding both hands into his lamp. “He tries to provoke you.”

 

Genji’s head snaps up, eyes searching Zenyatta’s face. “Then it’s as I said. He doesn’t want to reconcile.”

 

“No. He does not.”

 

“Then why did he come?” Tears threaten to fall once more. Genji’s voice is raw. “If he doesn’t want m-to fix our relationship, why come at all? He isn’t cruel, master. He was kind when we were children, and he is kind now, to my friends, to strangers he’s known for no time at all. Would he come just to goad me? Just to be cruel to me?”

 

“Yes.”

 

Genji stares at his master’s face, eyes wide and disbelieving. He pushes away, drawing his knees to his chest and wrapping his arms around his legs, eyes staring past Zenyatta towards the Watchpoint, its many windows reflecting different bits of clouded sky. He looks small, incomplete without his visor. There is silence for a pair of breaths.

 

“He has a purpose, my student.” Zenyatta moves, silently, elegantly. He settles at Genji’s side, scant centimeters off the ground, hands still folded in his lap. Genji simply quirks a nonexistent eyebrow questioningly. “He tries to provoke you. Into action.”

 

A shadow falls over them as a cloud slides across the face of the sun. The sky shines blue and white in the windows, standing out against the shaded, muted colors. Far, far below, on a ledge by the launch pad that overlooks the sea, there is a glimmer of gold. Genji’s eyes widen, both at the sight of the scarf and in understanding. He turns to Zenyatta, who nods slightly. He turns back, eyes narrowed.

 

-_-_-

 

Genji waits, the sound of the sea comfortably muted by the sheer walls around him. Water froths just barely in view between the two pillars of stone that detached from the cliffside eons ago to create this tiny protected cove that is exposed only at low tide. The moon is full tonight, coloring the scene in shades of black, grey, silver, and blue. He stands opposite a path that snakes down the cliffs and edges around one of the pillars, ending among the smooth, patterned rocks and pebbles that carpet the ground. The smell of salt and seaweed is heavy in the air and mist drifts slowly to the ground every time an unseen wave crashes into the pillars as the sea tries to climb back into the cove. It will not succeed for a few hours more.

 

Hanzo comes into view, walking along the path. He is dressed normally, kyudo-gi and hakama black in the moonlight, prosthetics and scarf silver, Storm Bow in his hand and full quiver on his back. He descends into the cove, walking confidently despite the uneven path and Genji’s message.

 

He pauses where it disappears under the stones. He looks at Genji, inquisitively, and sees the large stone with a flat surface as large as a bed that lies flush with the surrounding rocks. Genji stands just beyond. Understanding shows in his face. He crosses the cove, the rocks crackling and sliding under his feet, making sharp noises that disappear into the dull roar of the unseen ocean.

 

Hanzo reaches the boulder, takes a moment to adjust his clothing, and kneels in the exact center. He shrugs off his quiver and places it and Storm Bow to his side. He places his hands on his thighs and raises his head, looking Genji straight in the visor. Waiting. Expectant.

 

Genji does nothing, a silver apparition silhouetted in green, for several long moments, before he draws his katana.

 

Hanzo straightens, chin level to the ground, neck exposed, face serene, relieved, almost, the ghost of a smile on his lips. He looks more at peace than he has for a month.

 

His serenity is shattered when Genji tosses the sword away. It clatters among the rocks, ringing, sounding almost hollow. Another sharp ring as Genji draws and throws his wakizashi to the side with little pretense. The twin ringing echoes slightly, a shrill sound that cuts through the ocean’s voice even after it has diminished in volume almost to nothing.

 

Hanzo’s face is a grotesque mix of shock, confusion, and fury. “Again?” he finally breathes out, voice dripping with venom. “You shrink away, even as I kneel in front of you and offer no resistance? When I deny myself an honorable death in battle?”

 

“There is no honor in death.”

 

“ _Only_ in death may I regain it!” Hanzo spits back. He snatches Storm Bow from the ground and notches an arrow in one fluid move, aiming for Genji’s chest. “You have lured me here under false pretenses. Explain yourself! Now!”

 

“I need not explain anything,” replies Genji, tone formal, detached, his posture statuesque. “You are the one who has come here intending to deceive us. To deceive me.”

 

Hanzo’s eyes narrowed. “What do you accuse me of?”

 

“Nothing more or less than deception. You never meant to reconcile with me, brother.” Hanzo looks momentarily stricken, before forcing it under the fury. Genji continues. “You never meant to dedicate yourself to a cause other than your own. You came here to die.”

 

“Of course I did.” The words are low, a sigh, a hiss. “Of course I did. What alternative is there? I murdered you, Genji. I tore your body to _shreds_.” The last word is almost shouted. It does not echo. The arrowhead wavers.

 

“You tore me to shreds. You did not murder me. I am here, before you, broken, remade, whole.”

 

“It changes nothing!” Hanzo is trembling now, the exertion apparent, not the physical exertion of keeping the bow drawn and taut, but the mental exertion of finding the right things to say, without revealing too much.

 

“It changes everything.”

 

Hanzo smiles then, bitterly. “Yes. Yes, you are right. It does. Justice can be done, now that you are here. You can strike me down, as is your right. You have bested me once; you can do it again.” His face hardens. “But you will not. Why, coward?”

 

“You know why.”

 

Hanzo laughs derisively. “Oh, yes, you have _forgiven_ me. The omnic has wheedled its way into your heart, whispering about compassion, about peace, about _forgiveness_. But what does it know of honor, of redemption? What does it know of justice? What does it know--” Hanzo lowers his voice, eyes scanning Genji’s mask. “--how does it know I will not try to destroy you again?”

 

Genji bows his head fractionally. It is the only movement he has made since he threw his weapons away. The slight change is all it takes to transform his stance from resolute to mournful. “These are indeed questions my master has asked,” he concedes. “But he asked what _you_ knew of them.” Hanzo sucks in a breath, almost but not quite inaudibly.

 

He stiffens when Genji steps forward. The arrowhead jerks, trying to keep a mark on his heart, but the strain makes it bounce and twist. “Years ago, he asked me these questions, over and over, when he first knew me. I answered, again and again, in anger. ‘Nothing,’ I said.” Hanzo’s eyes involuntarily close before snapping back open. “‘He knows nothing. He struck me down, his only remaining blood. He was waiting to do it, gloried in it when he was given the chance. He walks the halls of our home, content that they are his alone. He does not suffer, he will never atone. He killed me and is glad he succeeded.’”

 

Genji bows his head. He cannot possibly be looking at Hanzo, now. “For years, that was my answer. But he persisted in asking. And slowly, the truth came to me.”

 

“Truth?” muses Hanzo, as if he cannot help himself.

 

“An arm around my shoulders, to calm a nightmare.” He steps forward. Hanzo’s eyes widen. “A twisted ear, when I was rude to a servant.” Another step. He purses his lips. “Muted conversations behind closed doors, begging our father to give me time, to forgive another infraction.” A step. His scowl deepens. “An underling prostrated on the ground, sure that his life is forfeit, looking up with wondering eyes when he is handed his head.” A final step. His eye narrow. Genji is too close to dodge. “Another underling, who cared nothing for the child who got in the way. Dead with a single, decisive strike with a blue-handled katana.”

 

The arrow could be loosed at any moment, voluntarily or involuntarily.

 

“The truth came to me as the anger and pain subsided. I answered my master calmly, without heat. He has not asked since.”

 

There is silence for the space of three massive beats of the ocean as it pounds against the coast.

 

“That was before I knew, of course. Before I followed the trail of rumors of a vengeful spirit who struck with a flurry of arrows before melting into the night. Before I found the halls of our childhood long empty. Before I knew that you were asking yourself the same questions and had no answer.”

 

The arrow falls clattering among the stones. The bow lowers, gripped like a lifeline. Hanzo’s knuckles are white. “I thought I had an answer,” he croaks out. “But it depends on you, not me. You speak of forgiveness, but you are content to allow me to suffer. How long until you are satisfied?”

 

“Until I am satisfied?” Genji is quiet, pensive. Then, sharply, “When did you regret it?”

 

Hanzo shrinks away. It is, by far, the most open and visceral reaction the man has ever revealed. “You--I will not--”

 

“When?” Genji steps closer, onto the stone on which Hanzo kneels. Hanzo tries to move backward and away, but Genji’s tone is cold and freezes him in place. “When did it strike you, what you had done? That you had murdered your own brother? When did the full force of your sin crush you beneath its weight? When, brother? When did it happen?”

 

Hanzo’s eyes have gone unfocused, glassy. “Instantly,” he whispers. Whimpers. “With the killing blow. I struck at your stomach. The blood poured out in a torrent. You cried out. You said my name as you fell to the ground and the world fell with you. You were gone. I had destroyed you, the only source of light in the darkness, and the night fell.” Tears glisten in his eyes and cheeks, sparkling in the moonlight.

 

He gasps when Genji darts forward, but he only has time to raise Storm Bow slightly before the surprisingly warm metal arms are wrapped around him. There are sharp rattles as metal skips and bounces off the stones behind him, and the tears start cascading down his face when he feels a misshapen ear pressed against his own, green hair prickling into his temple.

 

Genji holds him tight enough to hurt, pressing the air out of his lungs, his head on Hanzo’s shoulder. They both tremble, and Genji speaks, his words reverberating weakly through the metal chestplate, voice tight and reedy. “You’ve suffered for ten years after that first moment. There was a time when I wished you’d suffer forever, but now?” Tears fall on Hanzo’s shoulders, soaking into the fabric of the kyudo-gi. “A year, a month, a _day_ is far too long, brother. All I want from you is that first moment, when you came to yourself and reaffirmed your honor and your love for me with your regret. You cut yourself open in the same moment, and while I’ve healed and become whole, you’re still bleeding, still raw. You don’t deserve it. You don’t _need_ to do it any longer. I’m alive.” Hanzo’s breath hitches with a sob. “I’m _alive_ ,” Genji repeats forcefully, shaking them both, “And now you, too, can live. _We_ can live, _together_.” If it is possible, he tightens his grip. “There is no honor in death, brother. There is no redemption. They are found in living and acting.”

 

Hanzo’s chest is heaving with quiet sobs. “I-do not know-”

 

“ _I_ know. That can be enough for both of us, for now. If you don’t know, lean on my knowledge. If you don’t trust yourself, trust _me_ . You’ll see. You can’t see yourself like I can. Stay here until your vision clears. Please, brother.” Hanzo tries to draw away. Genji stubbornly holds him still. His teeth are sunk into him, he won’t let go, tenacious. “ _Please_.”

 

Hanzo slumps. His sobs have gone, but the tears still gather and spill.

 

Storm Bow lies forgotten on the ground. Up above, the stars twinkle. The moon sails through the sky, painting the landscape black and silver, grey and blue. The ocean’s roar fades away.

 

_-_-_

 

Genji walks into the mess hall. It is noisy, almost unbearably loud with Reinhardt’s booming shouts and Lena’s excited chatter as she effortlessly keeps up with four conversations at once. Zarya is almost as loud as Reinhardt, Lúcio almost as animated as Lena. They set the standard for volume and conversation. All must meet it or be lost in the noise.

 

It is all the more shocking and noticeable, then, when the room quiets as everyone realizes he is there, and that he is approaching the only one content to let the noise and volume wash over him without adding to it. Hanzo is leaning forward with a bowl of rice between his hands, having been trying to catch Hana’s words as she tells him something over the hubbub. She sits across from him. Now she looks trapped as Genji approaches from her side, glancing from one brother to the other. She likes them both, of course, but not together.

 

He stops at Hana’s side, nodding at her. His visor then turns to Hanzo. Everyone in the room seems to collectively take a breath.

 

The surprise is palpable when Hanzo slides another bowl of rice, hidden by his elbow, across the table, a pair of chopsticks rattling loudly as they are pushed in front of the bowl. It could be cut by a knife when Genji reaches behind his helmet and disassembles it in a flash, placing the components on the table while revealing scars, green hair, and a slight smile. He takes a seat next to Hana and takes up the chopsticks, and the surprise is complete. There is hardly a sound from their astounded teammates when all Hanzo does is briefly purse his lips at the scars (regretfully, thinks a nearby McCree), and quietly say, “How is Zenyatta?”

 

“He is well. We were meditating near the base of the cliffs just now.”

 

“Good,” replies Hanzo with only a little stiffness. Gesturing, he continues, “Hana was telling me of her first mission. Has she told you of it?”

 

“Not yet,” replies Genji, smiling at Hana, whose mouth is agape. “Would you mind starting over?” Hana smiles wide, shakes her head and begins her story again. If her voice is a bit thick, like she’s holding back tears, neither brother comments on it.

 

The noise picks back up gradually, but not back to its original level because it is Hana now who sets the standard for volume.

 

And the brothers eat and listen, Hanzo pensive, Genji smiling.

**Author's Note:**

> [Motetus](http://motetus.tumblr.com/) has blessed this story with this [beautiful piece!](http://motetus.tumblr.com/post/160671670369/im-alive-genji-repeats-forcefully-shaking) Thank you so much!!!


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